Between Worlds
by Starbrow
Summary: The Pevensies were just ordinary children who became Queens and Kings. One of them was a traitor. All of them were fallible. And fairy tales don't just stop at "Happily Ever After". Edmund-centric, Pevenfic, kind of dark, NO INCEST! Just updated!
1. Heal

**Title:** Heal

**Author: **Starbrow

**Rating:** G, but nobody reads K fics

**Summary:** How do you go from being a traitor to a king? Lucy tries to understand what's going on in Edmund's mind. Oneshot

**Disclaimer:** This is just one of the many playthings of an overactive imagination, and I am but the sad executor of it. I make no profit and certainly do not wish to deflect any glory from the creation of C.S. Lewis. So bow, ye minions! Bow! Ahem. Sorry you had to see that. On with the story. Oh yes….review if you wish.

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Did Aslan's breath heal all your wounds?

Amid all the glitter and excitement and flurry of activity in the days immediately following their coronation, this question kept nagging Lucy. Of course, Aslan _could_ do anything. She had even put her hands in his silky mane, felt the dangerous power that crackled in the smooth fur. It wasn't a matter of _could_, but _did_.

_Did_ Aslan's breath heal all your wounds?

Peter was all right. He'd always been like this – big and bold and steadfast and gallant and always taking on things he shouldn't – so this was just a _lot_ of things he had to take on, and not just Su and Ed and herself anymore. His smile when she would impulsively hug him, to remind herself he was still Peter, that her big brother hadn't been swallowed up in the grand figure of High King, was still the grandest sight. So that was all right.

And of course Susan was just the same, only more. She loved to solve problems and mother people, and now there was a whole kingdom to put back right and a legion of bewildered Narnians to set straight. Susan loved this world where she was taken seriously, almost like an adult. Lucy thought she might have to do something soon to remind Susan she was still a little girl – maybe a game of hide and seek? The castle had wonderful nooks and crannies. Well, she'd think about that later. If anyone could survive the responsibilities that had been placed on their shoulders, it was Susan.

Lucy didn't even pause to evaluate her own state of mind in these reflections. It simply didn't occur to her. She couldn't imagine being happier than here. There wasn't any one thing that made it right; just the fact that it was _Narnia_ made it right. A Narnia with Aslan. Lucy couldn't wait for long lazy summer Narnian days spent in the cool arbors, eating apples and devouring Narnian books, or sparkling autumn nights dancing with the dryads on the lawn; exploring the high seas on an adventuring boat, harvesting the fall crop, even feeling the first snowflakes of another winter falling softly on her nose each held a charm of its own.

But Edmund? Did he look forward to that?

Lucy watched him out of the corner of her eye and wondered.

He seemed to be trying to take it all in. Unlike Peter or Susan, Lucy had trouble reading this new Narnian Edmund. He was quieter than usual – well, he had always been rather quiet – but he seemed almost afraid that if he spoke, he would say something wrong…or that this whole world would vanish and he'd be back to his old self.

Lucy didn't even know where this thought came from, but the more she watched Edmund, the more it felt true. Outwardly he was becoming more and more of Edmund; he was growing more _real_, like they all were – bigger and stronger and wiser; his skin seemed more translucent, his cheeks flushed with health as they never had been from eating the Witch's food, and, oddly, able to smile a real smile. When called upon, he would think for a minute, then give advice that was worth listening to – and following.

Yet he was drawing into himself; Lucy had seen him do it before, and she felt it even more keenly here, where the connection between them was so much stronger than ever. His eyes spoke more eloquently than anything else of this silent retrenchment, dark and thoughtful with reflection. There was a part of him she couldn't touch, and he was retreating to a place she couldn't go. Everyone else saw what he put out for everyone to reach, which was the majority of himself, but Lucy wanted to know what piece of himself he was keeping back – or what piece he was missing.

She wanted to go up to him and hug him like she did Peter. She wanted to tell him how beautiful he was, how there were days she wanted to stop just watching him from the corner of her eye and throw her arms around him and soak him in and dance with him around the throne room. She wanted to show him how well being a king suited him, so much more than being a scared boy in England. She wanted to complete whatever bit of him he was holding back. So what was keeping her?

He would think she was being silly, for one. Childish, sentimental, all those things you aren't supposed to be. No, that was the old Edmund. The new Ed would just…shut her out. Turn away. Or be hurt by her assumptions. Could she even talk to him about it without inflicting more wounds? That was what puzzled Lucy.

It hurt her to have to keep her distance like this, always smiling politely at Edmund and never talking with him like she used to, even in England when anything she said could come back to bite her. Even then, the risk was well worth it to try and get beyond Edmund's shell, and the words had less power to hurt when she had his fleeting glance of love-thirstiness to sustain her.

It was odd to think now her words could have the power to hurt him. When had Edmund become so fragile? Lucy didn't want to think about the possibilities that could arise from an Edmund that still had some of the White Witch's poison left in him. She didn't doubt for a minute that he was wholly theirs now; what little concealment he used to have was now gone, and everything about him was transparently and fundamentally _good_. So why was he so afraid to show her this thing?

Lucy knew if she simply asked, his eyes would tell her the answer even if his lips didn't. Yet Lucy was valiant, not stupid; the two weren't the same thing, you know. Lucy somehow understood, or guessed, the fine line she walked in finding Edmund and pursuing him to a place he would never come back from. There were lash marks too fresh, sorrows too quick to come to his eyes, and nothing yet had tested his thin charade of normality, or at least as normal as you can be when recently made monarch of a country. Would he be able to feel the snow on his eyelashes without crumbling if she probed now, driving him further into a place of solitude? Or would he finally let himself cry tears she had never seen him shed?

Lucy kept silent, and watched out of the corner of her eye; and if she sometimes caught Edmund unexpectedly in a hug or asked him for an extra dance around the room at the Midsummer's Ball, well, that was Lucy for you, impulsive and affectionate. She tried not to let him catch her looking into his eyes, searching for something she couldn't find.

Did Aslan's breath heal _all_ your wounds?

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A/N: Hope you enjoyed this story! I was overwhelmed by the response it got, and am eagerly awaiting reviews now! I was so encouraged, in fact, that I decided to continue the sequence. I know for a fact I want to tackle Edmund, as I've recently been fascinated by his character. I was listening to Skillet's song "Imperfection" when I first got the inspiration for this story, and I think it perfectly captures the possibilities of Edmund's struggle _after_ he's been redeemed. We don't often think of the aftershocks of Edmund's experience, but I can't imagine a boy betraying his brother and sisters to a demonic tyrant without being left with some serious issues. Remember, this particular chapter was Lucy's interpretation of Edmund, not necessarily the reality of the matter...but she comes pretty close to the truth. If all goes as plan and my Muse stays with me, I hope to give you the other siblings' viewpoints. Coming up...Susan's thoughts! 


	2. Gentle

**Disclaimer: **Still not mine. After this, I'll assume the standard disclaimer applies so you can get right to the story.

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Gentle? Me? I was a little surprised by my title as queen, I must admit. Actually, I was a little surprised by all of our titles.

All except Peter's. It doesn't take much stretch of the imagination to picture Peter as magnificent. You forget he's only fourteen when you're with him, and you get overwhelmed by the thought, he's _king_. The sensation is almost frightening sometimes, when I'm sitting in counsel with him and our panel of advisors, and I look at Peter and wonder _Is that really my brother?_ It sounds absurd – until you experience his power for yourself. And it's not just the power, it's the concern that comes along with it – the attentiveness and care you feel radiating from his smile, like he's going to make things right no matter what. Those are the moments where I remember he's my brother as much as my king, and I'm inspired to be more like him in my leadership.

Then there's Lucy. At first you might wonder at the _valiant_ part – this is _Lucy_, for goodness' sake, my baby sister, who stills creeps into my bed at night when the roar of the ocean sounds too much like the bombs falling on London. My first instinct whenever there's trouble, whether it's our journeys through Narnia driving out the Witch's monsters, or dealing with disgruntled envoys at court, is to protect Lucy from anything that could hurt her. She's so innocent, her eyes so quick to show sorrow or pain, and she's young enough not to be ashamed of sheer childlike joy and delight in this beautiful world we've been chosen to rule. I want her eyes to stay that way, clear and shining, innocent of the regret I see in Edmund's eyes.

It's easy to forget when you look at Lucy, wide-eyed and eagerly absorbing everything going on around her, that she has braved wolves, an icy river, a journey dogged with danger, all manner of monsters at the Stone Table and the Great Battle, and even that first tentative step into Narnia. And not least of all, she clung to her faith in Narnia when none of us believed. I don't know how she keeps her joy when things look so bleak; it's the thing that seems to sustain her through times of uncertainty. She's never been afraid to venture out into the unknown or take risks. It's funny how, though Lucy is not without fears, I think at heart she has more innate courage than any of us, because she can move beyond her fear and her common sense to seize the possibilities before her. It's a trait that makes me both envious and, truth be told, a little intimidated. When she smiles up at me with that whole-hearted smile, I feel my doubts fading away and my cold logic melted by her trusting faith. If that's not courage, then I think I've got the wrong definition.

No, it was Edmund's title that really took me off guard. I guess when I've thought of Ed, I've always seen a belligerent but fundamentally scared little boy who needs to know things are secure before he'll let down his guard. He wasn't always a pest; I remember before the war days Peter and I would have such fun playing with him (Lucy was too young to join us then), as he would do whatever we said and really seemed to enjoy being a part of our games. But then Peter got older – he was the first to start outgrowing that sort of thing – and I lost my inspiration to stay young. There was so much going on then, with the war in Europe and rations and bombs and worst of all, Dad going off to war. Mother needed me so. I became the perfect second-in-command, taking on responsibilities for her just like Peter did what was necessary to make up for Dad. Playtime was over for us. And I don't know what happened, but it was around then that Edmund snapped. Lucy was getting old enough to want to join our set, and still untouched by the war for the most part, but Edmund wouldn't have anything to do with her – or with us and our grown-up ways. Peter tried at first to get through to him, but it only took a couple blow-ups for him to abandon the cause. I simply didn't have to time to coddle Edmund besides making sure he didn't get himself killed or run away or do something equally stupid. I think it was Lucy who tried the hardest. And for that, she was the one who got the most hurt. She's never really known the Edmund we see here – the one I'm watching now as he pours over books, trying desperately to adjust to Narnian life and kingship and all the implications that come along with it.

I've never really thought of him as Just. But, I've never thought of myself as gentle either. Motherly, yes. Bossy, definitely. I crave order and security as much as responsibilities and maturity. Some might see me as power-hungry; I think I want to know that the job is being done well more than anything. So I ask Edmund. In a round-about way, of course.

"Ed, do you think Aslan knew what he was doing when he picked our titles?"

He looks up, startled, from the impossibly thick and dusty tome on "principalities and imperial heads of state and proper conduct in matters of legality" or some such weighty subject that only Ed would have the stubbornness to tackle. The question seems to have to have taken him off guard, so he considers for a moment before finally answering, "Yes. I do. I think."

"Why?"

"Well – I mean, Lucy is obvious. And Peter." I nod. "The thing is, Narnia seems to sort of uncover things in us we didn't know were there. Good and bad." He paused, looking thoughtful for a moment, before continuing almost bashfully, "I didn't think you were all that gentle in England, at least with me."

"I wasn't," I interject, painfully aware of my neglect. "I was too busy taking care of things to see what you really needed."

"I mean, you'd be kind to Lucy when she was scared or lonely, but she was just a kid. And Peter was sort of like you – he knew what he was doing and he seemed so self-righteous to me."

"You thought I was self-righteous?" I ask in mock outrage.

"Hush up – you know what I mean. I was a perfect horror then. That's what I'm talking about – we're so different here in Narnia…but I wonder if those things were in us all along. Maybe if things had been different, if there hadn't been a war…maybe you wouldn't be afraid to believe in things" Looking down at the tabletop self-consciously, he continues, "And maybe I wouldn't have been so quick to do you all wrong."

I touch his cheek for a moment. "And maybe Aslan saw that when he was crowning us, and that's why he called you Just and me Gentle."

This seems to spark something in his memory, as he peers off into space looking thoughtful before remarking, "Do you remember, in England, we learned a piece in catechism…I can't remember exactly…I think it went something like 'calling things that are not as though they are'? That's how I think Aslan sees us."

Something warm and comforting emanated from that simple phrase, something Narnian and at the same time not. "Or maybe I just read that in one of these books," he amends, grinning. "I think my head is about to explode."

"Come on." I tug on his arm and pull him up with me. "Let's go walk on the beach. The salt air will do you good."

"All right, Mother." His tone is teasing, not disparaging, and I see a new empathy in his eyes. I begin to believe I may actually live up to Aslan's vision of me.

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A/N: I was actually rather surprised that this one came out. I have always hated Susan even since my first reading of LWW, long before I found out she had turned in TLB. Frankly I wasn't at all shocked to find she was too "grown-up" for Narnia. The film gave me a new appreciation of Susan, and this chapter proved a wonderful exercise in trying to get inside Susan's head and see things from her angle, as both the girl in England, the queen she is now, and the woman desperately seeking approval she is to become in TLB. I tried to tie all that in here, but it always sounds better in my head. Well, let me know what you think! 


	3. Weight of the World

**Chapter Title:** Weight of the World

**Acknowledgements:** C.S. Lewis (of course, who, remember, STILL OWNS the story, sigh), and Lifehouse's song "Trying," which jumpstarted my inspiration for Peter's perspective.

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It was too much for one person, any person, to tackle. So of course Aslan picked four children to rule Narnia. Peter just happened to be the eldest.

But why him? _Why him?_ How did he, Peter Pevensie, an ordinary fourteen-year-old boy from London, get to be bloody High King of Narnia? He hadn't asked for anything like this. He wasn't even extraordinarily well suited for the task. In fact, he was so _extra_ ordinary he wondered any of his subjects found him the least bit noteworthy, aside from the splendor of his kingly clothes and crown.

Yet they continued to seem awestruck in his presence. Even Susan, to his horror, appeared a bit dazzled by his new role – Susan, who had always been his pillar of good sense! She hid it well beneath her veneer of beauty and cool confidence, and only showed that expression of wonder that was so alien to her features in unguarded moments, when she supposed no one was looking at her. And Edmund - things were continuing to mend between them, as Edmund's resentment changed to approval and Peter's annoyance with his younger brother gave way to a protectiveness and tenderness he had before only felt for his sisters.

But Lucy…well, she had always been his vulnerable little sister, and he had always been her big brother-hero, and their kinship had no shade of wariness or careful awe to marr her undivided brother-worship or his sheltering tenderness towards her. When he danced with her at the coronation feast, her joy was too infectious to leave any room for brooding, and he joined her in breathless whirling around the Great Hall.

It was later that night, much later, when the palace staff had swept away the last traces of the festivities and the Great Hall was dark and deserted, that the enormity of his position started to engulf his thoughts. Aslan was gone. He was surrounded by subjects not even of his own kind. He had never studied politics beyond, say, a book or two by Winston Churchill or a biography of Genghis Khan. Right, that will do a lot of good in a completely different world you're ruling as High King. He was just – good old Peter, a dependable fellow, always finished his schoolwork at time, bright chap at times, stubborn as anything, couldn't hold a tune to save his life, all right in a fight when it came right down to it….all around, not the least what you'd expect a king to be.

Peter paced the empty Hall, thinking back to his childhood when he would read stories about knights of the Round Table and Camelot. Kings in those stories were always _kingly_ – you could tell they were kings even if they weren't wearing a crown and purple robes. They were glorious, noble, wise, inevitably suited for kingship. It was just something you were born with – and Peter had been born a common English kid, ordinary as dirt, with not even the auspicious circumstances of being a foundling or…or raised by wolves or something.

He found himself in the tiny chapel that was adjacent to the Great Hall. Moonlight shone faintly through the stained glass panels, illuminating the outline of the Lion's head that was etched into the center of them. Without thinking he dropped to his knees, drew out the sword that hung on his belt, and leaned his head and hands against it. "Oh Aslan," he breathed, "I am not fit for this task. Do not leave me here alone. If you love Narnia at all, show me I am worthy of this sword and crown, so I will not disgrace them."

He did not know how long he knelt there in the chapel, hoping that the Lion's figure would come to life and speak to him, or breathe on him like he did when knighting Peter Sir Wolf's Bane. But there was nothing, just the stillness and gentle glow of the sacred room, then the fading into true darkness as the moon waned in the sky. The emptiness was more unbearable then, and he made his way back to his chambers, where the candle left burning by his chamberlain was more than half gone. Too tired to light a fire, Peter exchanged his royal attire for a dressing gown and sank into one of the oversized chairs by the hearth, grateful at least that Narnians certainly knew about comfortable clothes and furniture.

"Peter?" The soft whisper broke his thoughts. It was Lucy, half inside the door, looking like a small vision in her white nightgown. She looked tiny, pale and a little forelorn.

"Lucy! What are you doing up?"

"Just…came to say goodnight."

"Lu, do you know how late it is? You should have been asleep _hours_ ago."

"So should you." She padded into the room and let the door close behind her. Her retort would have been much more believable had it not been spoken in a wistful murmur.

"What's going on, Lucy?" He gestured to the cushioned chair opposite his, but she slipped around the bed and curled herself at his feet. The steadfast queen of the throne room was gone, and just the little girl was left in her place.

She already was looking more at ease, nestled in the luxurious shag of the carpets and leaning against his knees. Peter considered her with a measure of concern. Lucy was so rarely out of her element; that was simply one of her gifts. Sitting on a throne or dancing with the fawns or kneeling among the wounded, Lucy was Lucy, elemental and brimming with life. Such a small person, yet her knack of making any circumstance more meaningful and _good_ gave her a natural influence Peter envied for its unstudied attraction. She, if any of them, was born for Narnia.

"Something on your mind?" he asked gently.

"I could ask you the same, or you wouldn't still be up."

"Ladies first."

She smiled and snuggled into the folds of his dressing gown. Days were balmy now in Narnia but nights in the marble walls of Cair Paravel were still rather chilly. Peter tugged a blanket from the end of the bed and tucked it around her shoulders.

"Come on, Queen. 'Fess up."

"Oh Peter. I don't know if you'll understand. You're so grown-up."

"Hey." He put a hand on her chin and leaned down to look straight into her eyes, his gaze dark with intensity. "Never. I'll never be too grown-up to understand…or at least listen, and try my best."

"Weellll…" Lucy peered shyly at him from beneath shuttered lashes. "It's this queen business. Peter, I'm just a kid! How can I lead all these people who are so much wiser and older than me? I'm so scared I won't know what to do and everybody will be looking to me to do the right thing but I'll just mess everything up! I don't know the first thing about ruling a country!" The words tumbled out of her in a breathless rush by the end. Her eyes were suspiciously bright.

Peter wanted to assure her even more than he wanted assurance himself. What could he say that would ring true, except the truth itself? He bent his head so that he could whisper right in her ear, "You want to know a secret, Lu?" She glanced inquiringly at him. "I am too."

Her startled stare was priceless. She was rendered speechless, brow furrowed with amazement. He sank to his knees beside her and continued, pulling her closer, "You see, I'm just as much of a kid as you, I've only lived a few years more. I'm probably ten times more scared than you right now. I've got you and Susan and Edmund and all of Narnia counting on me to lead the way, and I honestly can say I haven't got a clue. I don't have all the answers, and I'm supposed to. I've been thrust into something that's too big for me, and I know it will overwhelm me if I don't conquer this fear."

Lucy's eyes were transfixed. "Oh Peter! I had no idea. Why, I've always thought – you know – you can do anything."

"If only that were true." Peter sighed and let his gaze drift off into the darkness of the room, coming to rest on the flicker of the dying candle. Silence crowded around him; he hadn't realized how quiet his solitary reflection had been until he had someone else to talk to. No wonder Lucy wanted company.

She finally asked him softly, "What are you going to do?"

"That's what I've been trying to figure out all night. Where do we even start? This is too much for any of us – we're putting back together a whole country, Lu. Think about that." He shook his head, suddenly rising to his feet and beginning to pace around the room. "How do you do that? How do four children who've never studied any of this suddenly take on responsibility for the well-being of thousands of people? I don't know what to do either, Lucy. And I'm going to have to figure it out pretty fast, I think. Narnia can't afford to have a leader who is weak and ineffective."

"But they don't." Lucy's comment made him pause mid-pace near the window and look at her. The expression on her face came alive with illumination as she said slowly, as though it was just coming to her, "Aslan is the true King of Narnia, if you stop to think about it. We're just the caretakers of his country. So, I don't think he would let us do something that would bring harm to Narnia. And – I don't think he would have made us kings and queens if he didn't know what he was doing."

"But _why us?_" he pleaded.

She shook her head. "Maybe we don't need to know why." Lucy got up and came to stand beside him at the window. She looked out into the inky expanse of sky, dotted with stars over the wooded horizon, and said, "Mr. Tumnus told me that legend says every star is an actual being. He says they move and think just like us, only they dance in the heavens rather than on earth. He wondered why he was born a Faun and not a star. I couldn't tell him. And I don't know why we were born in England, and why _we_ were chosen to save Narnia. Aslan could have chosen anyone, a great war leader or – or the Prime Minister or something." She grinned up at him. "But he did choose us. So maybe…we have something to bring to Narnia that no one else does. I could be wrong, but it's less scary that way, don't you think?"

He didn't say anything, but kissed her in thanks. He thought now he could sleep, but instead they stayed up for a while yet, lounging on the window seat and talking about Narnia and home and all manner of things. When she fell asleep in his arms, he gently carried her to her bed and tucked the covers around her, reflecting that perhaps Aslan had come to him after all.

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One two three – awww! Please let me know what you think!


	4. Imperfection

**Notes: **Here it is! The long-awaited Edmund chapter! If you haven't already, open up a new tab and pull up "Imperfection" by Skillet, and play it while you read this chapter. (On repeat if you like.) It's the exact inspiration for my perspective on Edmund's internal battle. This fic also addresses the question...did Edmund ever find out what Aslan did for him? I examined PC and VDT carefully for clues, and came to the following conclusions.

**Rating: T** for violence and some disturbing imagery. I was even creeped out as I was writing it. (No incest or sexual content.)

Enjoy!

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The whole day of the coronation felt like a dream to me – a golden haze of flurry and splendor and constant congratulations and paws to shake and worshipful eyes to meet with a smile. The clearest memory I have of that day is the wild honeyed taste of the cordial that still lingered on my lips, undiminished by the many feasts served since the day of the battle. In the journey between that terrible night and our coronation at Cair Paravel, I caught several of the Beasts and Fauns licking their lips – always the ones who had been severely injured that day – and I would touch the spot on my side where there should be a wound and wish that I could trade the restoration of my body for just a drop of forgetfulness.

So yes, the day we began our reign was a welcome blur and my smiles that day were genuine, and I could look my brother and sisters in the face for the first time in ages.

It was the night that was my hell.

I stumbled into my room after the dancing and revelry and clamorous music of the evening had drawn to a close. The wine added to my haze – I was not used to drinking anything like that before, even the gentle spicy warmth of Narnia's wine – and the quiet of my fire-lit chamber was a relief. However the room felt uncomfortably warm, so I went to the alcove at the far end and threw open the casement, before falling into the luxurious depths of the bed.

It was then that I heard the music – the piercing otherworldly strains of melody that were utterly different from the rhythmic instruments and earthy folk tunes of the Narnian musicians in the dance hall. I could make out no words, simply keening swells of voices that rose and fell over streams of hushed melodies. It seemed to twist and coil in the air, not at all like proper music should simply be heard, rippling in waves of nearly visible breaths, as if a ghostly chorus of echoes was singing it into existence. I trembled uncontrollably at its eerie sweetness and pulsing seduction, feeling the strains take possession of my motionless form. I would later discover that it was made by the sea people, but that night I knew nothing of its origin or meaning, simply that it made every memory of the past weeks rise up in painfully clear precision.

I remembered the sickening addiction of the Queen's food. The cold – so cold, cold, would it always be cold? – that sank in and chilled me from the inside out. And most of all, the greed and arrogance and jealousy that made me betray my brother and sisters for the chance to become _her _ Prince, her slave.

I pride myself on my reserve and control. But it is the honest truth that in the darkening glow of the dying fire I wept uncontrollable tears of shame, rage, helplessness, shaking with the irreversible realities of what I had done. How easily I came to give up my own blood, the brother who had been my protector and idol, the sister who always looked after my well-being like a second mother, the sister who loved me so ferociously and unthinkingly that she forgave me instantly when I deceived and betrayed her the first time. What did I do with that love, that trust? I took advantage of it to lead my family to the jaws of evil, hoping to give them over to the Witch and certain torture and death in exchange for power and wealth. And by the laws of Narnia, I should have given _my_blood, traitor's blood, to pay for my treachery. And the worst of it was that I never even stopped to think of all this when I told those terrible lies to Lucy and Peter and Susan – I was blinded by my headlong lust to prove that I was better than them.

* * *

I dreamed that night the same nightmare I had had for the past four nights: the Witch's werewolves had caught them at the Beavers' house. I was Prince, terrible and cold and vile, but first and foremost a puppet of the Witch's harrowing will. And I tortured them, making them suffer as I had suffered at their hands, inflicting actual wounds for every verbal wound they had left on me. The Witch smiled at me, her icy cruel smile, and commanded me to kill them slowly, one by one, sparing no iota of pain before they died. I did as she said.

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It was a rough way to start as King. I had to pretend that everything was peachy, sitting with my siblings at the wide wooden table over breakfast (cold meat and pudding and candied fruits left over from the feast) and acting as though I had not just dreamed of killing them after successfully betraying them (as I had tried) to the Witch. Of course Aslan had already left; (if Mr. Beaver told me _one more time _ that He was "not a _tame_ Lion" I was going to decommission his dam) and I could not confide my torment to anyone. Not that I would have if I could, for I am and have always been an exceedingly private person, but the inescapability of my dishonor was a profound burden over the early days of my reign.

I briefly considered discussing it – a very small part of it – with Tumnus, for he was the only person in Narnia I knew who might understand how I felt. The only one who was not thoroughly and invariably good – and after all, he had been nearly as much of a conspirator with the Witch as I had. I held back, reasoning that I had no wish to hurt the Faun with reminders of his own near-treachery. But ultimately, it was my reticence to expose myself to scrutiny and disgust that shut my lips.

Reports pored in of dark things in the forests beyond the castle – stragglers from the Witch's army – and we spent those first few weeks hunting Hags and Goblins and Cruels and Ogres. I quickly found that the heat of battle made it easy to forget the demons that haunted my memory, and so is it any wonder that I leapt at every chance to pursue the foul things that beset Narnia's realms? And I was extremely good at killing them. Something seemed to take over my body when I entered into combat, and I abandoned all forms of proper swordsmanship and simply made it my goal to sink a blade into every monster I saw. And I did. Then I would return to Cair Paravel, and darkness would descend once more.

* * *

I dreamed the nightmare again. This time I stabbed Peter with a dagger made of ice, watching as bit by bit he froze and splintered and finally shattered into a thousand fragments.

* * *

"Edmund, honestly. You've got to eat," Susan scolded, pushing the platter of bacon and bread toward me and my empty plate. "You'll faint right off your horse from hunger."

"Stop it!" I groused. "I ate in my room. I'm not hungry. And I've never fallen off a horse in my life."

"Want to try it today?" she retorted. "Right into a gaggle of Boggles and Spectres? That'd be rich. Eat."

"Lay off, Su!" I said, and sprung up from my seat so abruptly that everybody stopped talking of the best way to dispatch a Boggle and stared at me. "I can take care of myself! I'll pack some extra rope to tie myself on! Just leave me be!"

I left the dining hall barking orders for all the things we would need on our monster-hunting mission – plenty of swords, horses, anti-haunting spellbooks – and hoped that none of my siblings would pry any further.

* * *

_Please Aslan, let me not dream the dream tonight._

* * *

That night it was Susan who died. I took away her coat – that's what she gets for always telling me to put mine on – and chained her to the frozen statues in the courtyard and left her there in rags for the night. Then I set Maugrim and his pack loose, and listened from the bowls of the castle to the sounds of their growls and snarls as they feasted on their prey.

* * *

"What's wrong, Edmund?" asks Lucy. Oh Lucy, don't ask me that. You don't want to know.

"Nothing," I answer, because there is no other answer I can give her. I already told you I'm sorry, didn't I? As if that even came close to making up for what I did to you.

* * *

I knew what I would dream that night. I wish I could forget the sight. The Witch had thrown me in the dungeons to patrol its depths and find the prisoners who had rotted to death in the cavernous ice cells. I found plenty of carcasses that used to be various Narnians – talking Rabbits, Stags, Fauns – and dealt with them with practiced ruthlessness. And I had forgotten about the last cell on the left and what – who – I had put in there so many wintry nights before. And there was where I found the little skeleton, curled up pathetically with tiny forearms wrapped around its rib bones in a fruitless search for warmth. Its head was still covered with a crown of soft golden hair, and scraps of gray woolen playclothes clung to its child-sized frame. And I – and I….

I woke up that morning wishing for death.

* * *

"There have been more reports, Sire. This time of greater numbers of Hags and Weres who are assembling in the wilds of the North. They have been setting fire to the Narnian borders, and calling upon the river gods to flood and provoking the trees to rebel. Please my lord, we must take swift action!"

So it was finally coming true. The Witch had foretold what would happen if the blood of a traitor was not forfeit. And now all of Narnia would perish in fire and water for what I had done…and for what I had not given.

* * *

Outside in the courtyard, I heard the clank of swords clashing together and metal armour scraping. It was Peter and the weapons master, along with several of the newer members of the guard from both Narnia and Archenland, training as they did weekly in preparation for the next combat with the remnants of the Witch's army. I should be with them, honing my pathetic forms beside Peter's natural gift of swordsmanship, but instead I hid in the armoury where there was no-one nearby to scrutinize or pierce me with their gaze, wondering what was exactly so Just about Narnia's younger King. There was nothing Just about the inevitability of their innocent lives being lost to pay for my treachery.

My fingers touched the hilt of one of the many fine daggers hung in oiled leather sheaths along the wall. _She_ always carried one made of stone, whose jagged ancient-looking shape had struck me with inexplicable terror, and I had felt the point of it on my throat more than once.

The Deep Magic required my blood…the blood of a traitor. And it had not gotten it.

It took only a moment to draw the knife from its sheath and bring the razor-thin blade to my wrist. Although the hand that held it trembled, I knew what must be done for the Law to be fulfilled and Narnia to be saved. And as I felt the tip of the dagger pierce my skin and drag along the surface, I closed my eyes and prayed…

An enormous roar filled my ears and knocked me to my knees. I dropped the dagger and fell with my face to the stone floor. I was trembling both with fear and with hope, for there could be no doubt that He was here. I felt warm breath on the back of my neck.

"Son of Adam," came that wonderful, terrible rumble. "What have you done?"

"Aslan, YOU know what I've done. You know what she said had to happen for the Deep Magic to be appeased. Narnia will perish unless my blood is shed…and I won't let that happen, I won't, I won't! Just let me do this for Narnia, I beg you. For Peter. And Susan. And Lu- Lucy…" I could feel hot rebellious tears slip underneath my eyelids and race down my cheeks, mimicking the trickles of blood that traced across my wrist.

"I know the Deep Magic.," said Aslan solemnly. "I was there when it was created. And I know the Deeper Magic which the Witch did not. Rise, Son of Adam, and behold."

I drew myself upright and kneeled before the great Lion. He shook his mane and lifted his head high, presenting the golden fur of his neck for me to see. And there, on the crest between his front legs was a jagged white scar. I knew the shape of its serraded edge.

"Aslan," I whispered. "Please tell me what happened."

"The Deeper Magic was fulfilled," said Aslan, and he lowered his head again. "I gave my blood willingly in exchange for yours. The Witch believed that a traitor must die for the Deep Magic that makes up the very fabric of Narnia to endure. That was the extent of her knowledge. For the Emperor-beyond-the-Sea has woven many Deeper Magics into Narnia's creation. And the fulfillment of this Deeper Magic – that a willing substitute for a traitor will cause the Stone Table to crack and reverse Death itself – is what has saved you, and Narnia, from her claim."

I could not believe my ears. All this he had done…to pay for my treachery. "And you truly died? At the Witch's hand? Why would you do that for a little rat like me?"

"This too was written on the Stone Table, in a script too ancient for even the Witch to understand. It was the reason the Emperor sent me across the Sea, before Time began."

I was in a state of shock. I had read of Narnia's histories, the thick tomes detailing the creation of the world when Aslan sang Narnia into existence, when King Frank and Queen Helen first began their rule, and when a cruel Queen from another realm had tried to bring evil into the newly born world. It had been hundreds, perhaps thousands of years from now, and in comparison to the extent of Narnian history I was just a tiny speck, an ant on the page of its vast chronicles. It simply was inconceivable. "I don't understand how you could have made that trade. I am nothing, just…worthless compared with you. Narnia needed you. They don't need me."

Aslan let out a low roar that made the floor shake with its reverberation. "That too is one of the Magics of Narnia," he said. "The prophecy calls for two Sons of Adams and two Daughters of Eve. The number cannot be lessened. Your death would condemn Narnia to the very fate you fear for it."

My shock was audible. "I - I never thought...oh Aslan. I'm so sorry. I mean, that's not enough – not even close to enough – I'm just – so sorry, so sorry Aslan…"

"Hush child," he growled. "You have been forgiven. There is no need for further despair. All has been done. Remove the last curse of the Witch from your heart and take your place as rightful King and ruler, Edmund the Just."

He bowed his head until his nose touched my shoulder, and I felt courage and strength that had nothing to do with my own doing rush into me like a roll of thunder. I vowed that I would.

But first, I had to fulfill my proper duty as a Knight of the order of the Lion. I picked up the dagger and carefully wiped it clean of my blood. For Aslan demanded a clean sword that can be drawn swiftly and without tarnish or rust, and I could not leave his instrument diminished.

I stood up and presented to Aslan for inspection. He was gone. Vanished. Not a tame Lion, after all. I shook my head. I still felt his breath and his courage flowing through me. I strapped a scabbard onto my waist and plucked a sword from the wall – I had no Rhindon, but I had no need to match Peter either – and plunged it into the sheath. Then I threw open the doors of the armoury, and light came pouring into its shadowy corners.

"Ho! Peter…"

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Well, there it is! Six years in the making! Thank you to everybody who has read, commented, favorited, and followed. Hope you like the conclusion, and if it provoked any kind of emotion or response from you, please let me know and leave a comment! I treasure each one and really want to know what you thought. Or requests for the next story? Anyhow, thanks for the journey!


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